I write a letter at the end of everything, only sending it finally when I am ready to hand over to the next.
Seven years I have spent sipping at the smoked throb of at least 200 hearts.
I felt quite often that I was just ten minutes faster than you, always losing my wallet in your seams. But your hugeness never swamped me, you always gave me enough pockets and fine edges that I felt sweet even in my foulest mood.
Our talent was in our thirst, mostly. Fitting fifteen days into 5 hours felt forever with you. Pieces of jobs and slim suits and wet cheeks pressed onto dirty bus windows flip through my thoughts and I kiss you and keep you at the top of my mind for a good time. With crossed legs on tubes, hiding my lunch under a big book, always making me feel like playing at being a grown up. I know I grew this me while inside of you and I know your wide walls do not weep as I drive out alone.
You’ll be the big boyfriend, the one who taught lessons on falling in love, writing hate mail to myself, faking a broken heart, crying into pizza(s), laughing so loudly that I get chucked out of the restaurant and watching friends die and taking with them a piece of you, and me, too.
You gave me the first part.
I have full eyes to see your new girls come in and take my seat but you can keep the throne warm for my visits.
I’m heartbroken now in a kintsugi way: the gold rivers welded with fragments of your sills and my laughter. Your sills and my laughter and our bottle tops pressing into the soles of the figures I left with you.
Love you London loads and I’ll never know you better than now.